


unValentine

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Category: Mirrormask (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-24
Updated: 2008-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wished he knew what she saw when she looked at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unValentine

He wished he knew what she saw when she looked at him. She had made him a mask and a costume, had dubbed him Valentine for the circus, had taught him how to juggle and joke along with everyone else. There was a shadow behind her eyes, something that wasn't quite right. It was as if she was seeing someone else standing there instead of him, someone that he should have known but didn't. It was an odd creeping feeling along his spine, a sensation that he wasn't all there, even when he was. It was like being a dream and real at once, drifting between worlds he didn't realize even existed. She saw something when she looked at him, something he couldn't put his finger on. Maybe she could only see the potentials in things and not the actual things; she was an artist, after all, and they were supposed to be quirky and eccentric.

Still, he wished he knew what she saw when she looked at him. He wished he knew what to expect when she opened her mouth to speak, when she leaned in for a juggling trick, when she fastened the mask over his face and sighed "Valentine, you're always going to be an important man."

It made him want to be this Valentine, whoever he was, whatever he was. It made him want to break his heart to pieces, to have her glue it back together in the shape of the thing she saw. It made him want to be something other than who he was, some pretender who ran away to the circus to lose himself from the grief of normalcy.

He wished he knew what she saw when she looked at him. Maybe then, it wouldn't be so hard to bear.

Helena came alive in the circus. She was dressed in white or black, hair done up and glittery paint on her face. When she dressed as the Princess to his Valentine, she never wore a mask. She grinned as she juggled, the excitement lighting her up. She was magic personified, the very thing he had wanted to become when he ran away to the circus. She laughed and joked and swung herself about, mercurial moods light and airy. Helena  
looked at him during the show and saw Valentine, and she seemed more alive than ever.

When the show was over and he was not Valentine anymore, but his unValentine self, Helena's eyes slid sideways. She was looking through him again, expecting him to be someone else. How could he compete when he didn't know what the rules were?

"Tell me about Valentine," he tried asking once.

"He is a very important man," Helena had laughed, no trace of mockery in her tone. "He has a tower."

She spoke as if that explained everything, even if it told him nothing.

He took to wearing the mask over a simple purple shirt and beige slacks between shows. He practiced juggling with balls and pins and sticks, whistling to himself. The tune was aimless and formless, something drifting on the edge of his memory, something that made Helena's steps pause when she walked past him. "That's so familiar," she murmured, looking at him from the corner of her eyes. "That's something Valentine would play, if he could. That's Valentine's song."

There was an ease in Valentine's stride, a confidence in the steps he took. His usual unValentine self had become self-conscious, with mincing steps and sideways glances and second guesses. Valentine had no such problems. Valentine _strutted._ He walked with an airy grace, arms akimbo, pockets empty and head full of dreams. Helena laughed when Valentine plucked a coin from behind her ear, when he took her arm and graciously squired her about. She looked him in the eyes when he told her she was as beautiful as any princess, light or dark, black or white. He told her that she was the key, after all, she was always more important than she seemed to think she was. She _saw_ him then, all of him, and the moment held such complete clarity that it was painful once it passed.

The others in the circus took to calling him Valentine, used to his purple and beige strides. It was getting so that they were startled when they saw him in any other colors, when he wore jeans or slacks as his unValentine self used to wear. They didn't gawk when he wore his mask, though it seemed almost eerie that they took it in stride when the circus wasn't performing. He had the mask, but it was becoming as comfortable as his real face, the fleshy and bony thing that moved when he talked. The others in the circus didn't seem to mind either face, didn't think it strange that he would walk about with a mask.

_I'm Valentine,_ he would say if they asked. _I'm an important man. I have a tower, though we did get into an argument once. I do think she'll return to me if I apologize properly._

He didn't stop to ponder the embellishment. It just seemed to fit so naturally. Valentine had that sense of dignity and style, the sense of dramatic flair that amused and drew others in.

He caught Helena about the waist behind the tent after one of the main shows. Sparkling with silver facepaint and a white lace dress, she was _shining._ She was a Light Princess today, laughter tinkling like silver bells. "Am I to be your champion?" he asked, purple-painted lips by her ear. She shivered as his warm breath made contact with the shell of her ear. Her spine trembled beneath his fingertips, her back tilting slightly as he nearly swung her about. Her eyes were dark, almost all pupil as she took him in and _saw_ him. Her lips parted and she seemed short of breath as she contemplated him.

"Valentine?" she whispered, awestruck.

His mouth seized hers, tongue sliding into her mouth. Perhaps he wasn't truly a Champion. Perhaps he was a ragamuffin of some kind, a trickster, a vagabond destined to circle the earth in search of his tower and his Princess. Perhaps he wasn't what she thought he was.

At the moment, arms curling around her laced form, he was Valentine.

Helena was dazed as she took in his retreating form, the swing of his arms as he walked. He was whistling again, that offhand song, the lilt in the tone all too familiar and unfamiliar at once.

She was the Dark Princess the following night. She wore a dress of black and black ruffles, black leather gauntlets laced across her wrists, hair spiked and pulled back. Her heeled boots didn't make any noise across the sand of the main arena, and the black pins in her hands shone as the lights danced across her form. She spoke of a fairy tale of her invention, the Queen of Light and Dark in conflict over the borderlands, the Princess seeking to find a place of her own. Valentine swept in then, catching the shiny, shellacked pins and they juggled together. "I'll find your way out, my Princess," Valentine said, his voice ringing out throughout the circus. "I'm a very important man, you know. I know all ways in and out of the borderlands, and I know where to find the secret key."

Helena had never mentioned the key before, and nearly dropped a pin.

Valentine was waiting outside of her trailer after the show. She had briefly spoken with her parents about this new act, and they had been thrilled at the customers' responses. It was more than just juggling, after all, and it was something that the viewers felt they were actively involved in. They were _participating_ somehow, though none could explain exactly how.

"Helena."

She paused, gloved hand on the doorknob to her trailer. "Valentine?"

He seized her hand and swung her about before catching her body up against his. "Well, then, Princess. You're worth all the rubies a man can carry and then some."

She hadn't told him about that, either, and a chill swept down Helena's spine.

Valentine's laughter was confident, full of bravado as he began to waltz with her. "No mask upon your face," he commented, twirling her about. "Just the dark around your eyes and the red of your lips." He bent his head down, lips hovering near her ear. "How dark do your thoughts get, Helena? What do you dream of in the middle of the night?"

Mouth dry, Helena couldn't answer him. She shook her head, eyes wide and nearly all black pupil.

"Shall I show you, Princess? Maybe you don't know how you look at me, the way you seem to expect me to move. Should I go where your thoughts take you?" One of Valentine's hands slid down her spine to rest at the small of her back, fingers splayed across the curve of her buttocks. "Isn't this all you've dreamed of?"

Her eyes slid shut as she held onto him tightly. She tucked her face into the curve of his neck, the scent of paint and musky sweat filling her nostrils. She breathed in the scent of him, _Valentine,_ and sighed in pleasure. "You are Valentine."

"Of course," he murmured, opening her trailer door. "This is everything you've hoped it would be."

He laid her down on the bed amidst kisses. He cupped her breasts through the dress, cradling them, then began to slowly undo the straps that held the halter top in place. Black ruffles and silk tumbled down, exposing her pale skin. Valentine took a breast into his mouth and suckled slowly, deliberately, causing Helena to moan in pleasure. One hand slid the skirt back, exposing the stockings and garter belt, the scrap of fabric between her legs that kept her hidden. She had dressed in black from the skin out, swathed in silk and lace and leather. Valentine cupped her sex, tongue laving the nipple between his lips. He slid a finger past the black fabric, testing the growing dampness between her legs. Helena made a soft keening noise, arching into his touch. Valentine shifted position, pushing his masked face against her musky sex. He took her clothed clit between his lips, his finger pushed deep inside her. He sucked gently, causing her to cry out and writhe beneath his mouth. He could feel her clench down around his finger as she came closer to climax, her breath coming in soft pants and mewling cries of pleasure. He crooked his finger inside her, sending her spasming into oblivion.

When she came back to herself, Valentine was gone.

Helena grasped his face between her hands the next day, her eyes searching his. Whatever she saw there wasn't what she expected to find, and she let go of his face, disappointed. He supposed he was that unValentine again, the thing that wasn't what she wanted him to be. Hollow disappointment filled him. What else did he have to do?

_Who do you see?_ he wanted to ask her. _Who is this Valentine, really?_

He kept his mouth shut, his head down and his hands constantly in motion as he practiced his juggling. He didn't know who he was anymore, this strange hybrid thing. It was as if he was Valentine and unValentine at once, a creature shifting between two planes of existence. If Helena was the Dark and Light Princess, he was also caught somewhere between extremes.

Another show, another bout as Valentine. Another grand promenade around the big top, mask on his face and arms akimbo as he strode about, light on his feet. He bowed before his Princess, drew his fingers across her face in a gentle caress as they began the tale again.

Afterward, he brought her from the tent to her trailer, darkness overhead. Even the stars weren't out that night, no moon to light the way. Valentine didn't let her turn on the lights and kissed her protests away. He undressed her in the dark, feeling his way along her skin. By touch he drew her down to the bed, licking a path from neck to breast. Helena pushed at his loose jacket, at the sleeves of his purple shirt. Valentine drew it up over his head, kicked off the loose trousers. Skin to skin they lay on her bed, only the sound of kisses for company. He tasted her skin, pressed his fingertips into her hips to keep her steady. Helena could barely speak as he worshipped her with his mouth and tongue, tracing symbols of protection onto her skin. His head bent down between her spread legs, tasting her. His fingers spread her wide and dipped inside, drawing soft sighs and moans. She came, a trapped supernova in his hands, a flow of honey beneath his lips.

Helena reached for him, almost hesitantly, then settled on kissing the skin of his shoulder as she tucked her face into the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, fingers settling along her spine. "Don't you trust me?" he asked when she trembled beneath his hands.

"Of course I do," she replied without thinking.

He moved above her, her Valentine without a mask or paint. He pushed deeply inside of her, masking her gasp with an open kiss. He stroked her gently, slowly, until she became accustomed to his presence. Only then did he rock against her, pulling her hips to his. Helena clutched at his shoulders, gasping, mewling his name as she approached her peak.

_Valentine._

Still he moved, thrusting deeply inside her wet heat. "My Helena," he murmured, hands on either side of his head, propping him up. He could make out the outline of her face in the dark, could almost see the look of stunned ecstasy on her face. He closed his eyes as he came, not knowing his own name.

And yet, days later, it was as if nothing happened. She practiced the routine with him, ate in the communal mess hall when they moved to a different location. She laughed and joked with the others, as if all was well and nothing magical had happened. No one could even guess, could even tell, and he wanted to howl in misery. It was bad enough when he simply didn't exist the right way for her. It was bad enough when she saw someone else in his face and movements. Helena made his insides twist with a single look, yet she didn't seem to understand the pull she had over him. How could she not understand that he was trying? He was pushing himself so hard to meet the ideal, her ideal, and she simply couldn't see it.

He caught her arm, aware of feeling more like unValentine than Valentine. That didn't matter, surely. Surely Helena would _look_ at him, _see_ him, all of him, whoever he was. But her eyes slid sideways, seeing something else. Someone else. It was as if she was looking through him and didn't see what was actually there, though her mouth moved and words formed and fell from her lips. He felt as if he was moving through honey, as if pushing past her expectations was wearing him down piece by piece. "You don't look at me," he told her, keeping the desperation from his voice. "You don't see me."

"Of course I do," she had replied, confusion in her tone. "Whatever do you mean?"

She wasn't aware of it, not fully. But she had to sense that there was something missing in him, something that she didn't quite see. Helena frowned prettily at him, lips downturned, eyes still sliding past his face.

"Do I need to wear a mask for you?" he asked, voice low and haunted. Disappointment colored his tone, and he couldn't keep it out. "Is that the only way you'll meet my eyes?"

Helena's eyes flew to his, startled and almost guilty, almost comprehending. But then the moment passed, and her eyes slid away again. "I don't know what to think about the other night," she whispered. "After the show, when I was the Princess and you were Valentine..." She looked up, but seemed to look at the corners of his eyes rather than his actual eyes. "I don't know what to think," she repeated, almost plaintively. "What does it mean, what happened?"

"For us? Or for them?"

She shook her head, but her face was pale. His words didn't make any sense to him, but they seemed to be so drastic to her. "What does it mean for you?" she asked, lips trembling.

He wanted to take her into his arms, to hold her tight and tell her everything would be fine. He was who he was, unValentine though he might be, and he would take care of things. What happened was important, sure, but it was born of true affection, not affectation.

The words wouldn't leave his lips, not as they formed in his mind.

He drew her close, arms around her shoulders. He began to sway to an idealized waltz, and Helena leaned into his embrace, drawing in his scent. "I walked through the borderlands for you," he whispered against her temple. "I know I made mistakes, but I set them right. I'd do it all again for you."

Helena didn't freeze, not exactly, but she had grown very still in his arms. "Valentine?"

"I'm a selfish man," he continued, oblivious. "But I can change, you know. I can do right once in a while, and I know I would be worthy of you if I tried."

Helena bit her lip. "And me?"

"You're the lost Light Princess, you know," he murmured against her temple. "The Dark Queen locked up her Dark Princess so she could never escape again. It's only a matter of time before she breaks free again. But you... The Light Queen let you fly to see the world. You had to, to know where your place is."

"And where is that?"

"With me, of course," Valentine replied gaily. He backed up a step, seizing her hands in his. "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Chewing paper is like toffee. Whatever other wise words you need, I'll go find them. You'll stay with me, won't you, Helena?"

Helena smiled, eyes shining with unshed tears. "As long as I can."

Valentine caught her face in his hands. "What's this, now? Tears for me? For us?" His thumbs brushed across the tops of her cheeks. "None of this now, when we've only just found each other here."

"Valentine?"

"Of course, Helena," he replied, even though she hadn't asked a question yet.

_Will we be together always, no matter what world?_ she had wanted to ask. She couldn't push the words past her lips, couldn't put the thought together.

"Of course," he repeated, as if he could read her thoughts. He brought his lips to hers, her Valentine, her vagabond with a tarnished heart.

They were both in a dream and real at once, and that was all that really mattered.

 

The End.


End file.
